As I near the two-year mark since my son’s passing, I find myself reflecting on the profound journey of navigating life without him. My son, Max, lost his battle with cancer just 13 days after turning five, leaving behind me, my husband, Jake, and his younger brother, Noah, who is now five himself.
I’ve been managing, as best as anyone in my shoes can. Like so many other grieving parents, I started a nonprofit to feel closer to Max and to reshape my priorities. For years, I was immersed in the world of cancer, dedicating every moment to caring for my ailing child. But when he passed, I felt a void, as if the noise of daily life—my anxiety, fear, hope, faith, and determination—had abruptly ceased. That deafening silence is intertwined with grief, loss, and an aching absence. In a desperate attempt to fill that emptiness, I find myself returning to the world of cancer; it’s my way of honoring Max and feeling as though I’m still caring for him. It’s a bittersweet effort to combat the gnawing guilt of having lost him.
I would give anything to feel that familiar chaos again—the days spent in hospitals, restless nights in cold chairs, and the unwavering resolve to reassure him that everything would be alright. I was his anchor, just as he was mine.
When I’m not enveloped in numbness, I often experience a spectrum of emotions ranging from pain to rare moments of joy. Grief ebbs and flows, always lurking just beneath the surface. It’s become an unseen companion—sometimes quietly resting on my shoulder, other times storming through my heart with a force that feels almost tangible. While others may not see it, its presence is undeniable.
Every morning, I wake up and for a fleeting moment, I forget my loss. But as I rise, the weight of my grief pulls me down like a heavy blanket. Dragging myself across the room, I spot Max’s radiant picture on my dresser beside his urn. Some days, I manage a smile and softly say, “Good morning.” Other times, I fight back tears that threaten to spill over. Occasionally, I am overwhelmed, succumbing to a wave of sorrow even before the day has truly begun.
My focus shifts to Noah, who needs to be ready for the day. As I walk past Max’s closed bedroom door, I am reminded of his absence. Brewing coffee, I think of the mornings when Max used to say he wanted to put the “wub” (love) in my cup. Even when he became too ill to help, I would bring the coffee to him, holding his hand and stirring it together. It was my way of reclaiming those moments from the clutches of cancer.
Noah brings me immense joy. I make him give me “morning hugs” that linger a bit too long and I find myself holding him close despite his growing size. He has his whims—cereal, bagels, pancakes—and I cater to them all. I place his breakfast in the nook of the couch, a spot once occupied by Max. I remember those mornings with Max, resting on his Spiderman pillow, and the nostalgia washes over me.
While rummaging through the house, I still stumble upon remnants of Max. A sheet of scribbles and stickers hidden beneath construction paper brings tears to my eyes. I tuck it away, promising to revisit it. In the junk drawer, I find notes about his medications, relics from a desperate time when I fought to save him. Noah plays with toys that once belonged to his brother, and I wonder how they would interact if Max were here.
After work, I take Noah swimming, cherishing the remaining summer days before school starts. We share laughter, and my heart swells with pride. Watching Noah swim, I can’t help but think of how adventurous Max would have been, diving into the deep end to splash his little brother. When I picture Max as a seven-year-old, it brings a bittersweet warmth to my heart. I often visualize him beside me on vacations or at the beach, and these memories keep him alive within me.
Time has marched on since Max’s passing, yet it feels as though I’m stuck in a time warp. Noah is now older than Max ever was, and soon he will embark on his first day of Kindergarten. A classmate remarked that he wished he had a brother to share the school bus with, which resonates painfully. Kindergarten is a significant milestone that Max never got to experience, and the weight of that loss is heavy.
The back-to-school season is more challenging than the holidays. Each photo posted online of children heading to school serves as a stark reminder of what I’ve lost and what Max was denied. I struggle to articulate the depth of this pain, as every image pierces my heart.
I cannot relish Noah’s first day of school as other parents do because there is always the shadow of Max. Each achievement of Noah’s is interwoven with the grief I carry, and it burdens me to know Noah must share these milestones with my sorrow.
During casual conversations, I often face the question, “How many children do you have?” My response varies, depending on my mood, sometimes omitting Max entirely to avoid discomfort. I know that those who ask may not know how to respond, and there’s no perfect answer to ease the pain that accompanies such a loss. A simple “I’m sorry” often feels insufficient.
Conversations with other parents about trivial matters seem distant to me. I nod along, but my mind drifts to memories of hospital visits and the moments that haunt me. I reserve those thoughts for my husband or other parents who understand this journey.
At night, I still grasp the toothbrush that remains next to his. I can’t bring myself to put it away, even now. Some nights, I find comfort in the familiar act, longing for connection with the remnants of his presence.
Jake and I struggle to find comfort in one another, both aware that nothing can mend this wound. I watch him kiss Max’s ashes before bed, and we often sleep with a doll resembling Max nestled between us. It’s a keepsake from a thoughtful friend, and it brings us solace. Some nights are filled with joy as we talk about Noah, while other nights are steeped in sorrow. Our best moments are when Noah joins us, and we share prayers and laughter as we drift off together.
There will never be a “perfect day” for a bereaved parent, a reality that doesn’t soften with time. We learn to cope, to find joy in the little things, but the ache of loss remains. I miss my son more than words can express.
In summary, the journey of a grieving parent is marked by a profound mix of emotions, everyday routines intertwined with memories, and the struggle to find joy amid sorrow. The absence of a child leaves a void that can never truly be filled, but love and memories continue to keep their spirit alive in our hearts.